


Pear Pie with Red Wine and Rosemary

by MostWeakHamlets



Series: A.Z Fell Cooking (aka vlogger au) [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, South Downs, Vlogger AU, a.z fell's cooking show, crowley gets day drunk but it's a good time, crowley is camera shy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:27:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,338
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22793977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MostWeakHamlets/pseuds/MostWeakHamlets
Summary: Crowley gets day drunk. Aziraphale makes a pie. YouTube loves them.--“Is this all it takes to get you to open up on camera? A little bit of wine and a pear as a snack?”
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: A.Z Fell Cooking (aka vlogger au) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1610359
Comments: 56
Kudos: 800





	Pear Pie with Red Wine and Rosemary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sabraneadaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sabraneadaz/gifts).



> Written for the lovely elektratios, requested over Tumblr. 
> 
> Check out mostweakhamlets.tumblr.com for more vlogger au content! And check out the rest in this series here on AO3! 
> 
> For context for this AU: Aziraphale and Crowley move down East Sussex after the apocalypse that wasn't. Aziraphale begins an online baking/cooking show which gets wildly popular after people see how sweet he is and how adorable his camera-shy husband, "Anthony", is.

“This will need to be reduced to about two-thirds of a cup, so it is important to keep an eye on your filling so that you don’t boil away too much.” Aziraphale shrugged Crowley’s pointy chin off his shoulder. “If you’re also babysitting your drunk husband at the same time, then this might present a challenge.”

“Aww, angel!”

Aziraphale looked away from the pot to catch a glimpse of Crowley swaggering off and taking another swig of wine. His lips were tinted red. 

“We need to cook with that,” Aziraphale said, turning away from the camera. They could edit their side conversation out. 

“We have more than one bottle.”

Crowley passed the wine to Aziraphale with a cheeky grin. Aziraphale gave him a berating look even as he took it to take a sip for himself. 

“Is this all it takes to get you to open up on camera? A little bit of wine and a pear as a snack?”

“S’pose so.”

Aziraphale shook his head, grinning. He turned back to the camera.

“You can certainly eyeball your filling. There’s no need to actually measure it out. Once you’re happy, you’ll need to strain it. Now, once you do strain it, you’ll need to continuously whisk it, so you may need a hand to help. Dear, could you hand me the sieve?”

“Um…”

“It’s the thing that looks like you would use if you wanted to strain something.”

Aziraphale turned off the stove. Crowley’s hand and the metal mesh strainer appeared in the frame. 

“Thank you, my love. Would you like to help me add the butter after I finish?”

“Sure.”

Crowley grabbed the bowl of pre-measured butter, cut into small pieces that would easily melt into the filling. Aziraphale watched him closely as he tapped the sieve against bowl that now held the liquid of the filling. 

Viewers were used to seeing Aziraphale appear longsuffering when receiving help with cooking. When Crowley wasn’t too camera-shy to step in front of the camera, he was usually a little tipsy and would hinder progress. People suspected that Crowley had never cooked for himself before and most likely lived on packaged meals until he met his husband. But Aziraphale always ended the video smiling at him and thanking him for his help--no matter how little help Crowley actually was. 

“You’ll stir in the butter until it’s all dissolved, but don’t put--don’t put it in all at once!”

Crowley stood frozen with the now-empty bowl in his hand. Aziraphale shook his head and kept stirring, trying to work in the lump of butter chunks. 

“Sorry.”

“It’s alright. It shouldn’t make that much of a difference as long as it all melts. Thank you, my dear.”

Crowley smiled. Viewers had also noticed how the slightest praise made Crowley light up. 

“Once this is all mixed together and smooth, you’ll set it aside for a moment and move on to the rest of the filling. That’s when you’ll need the cornstarch--that’s not the cornstarch, Anthony--cinnamon, flour, and the rest of the wine we had set aside from before.”

Crowley passed the bowls of ingredients with Aziraphale nodding as he picked up the correct ones. Aziraphale poured them all into the same pot, peering in to watch the dry ingredients dissolve into the wine as he stirred.

“You’ll need to whisk all of these together over medium heat until it thickens. It should take only a minute.” Aziraphale lifted the whisk from the pot, the goop slowly dripping off. “And now you can _slowly_ add the syrup we just made. Anthony, would you do the honors?”

Crowley picked up the bowl and hesitantly held it over the pot. Aziraphale, with the whisk still in one hand, reached over to put his hand over Crowley’s. 

“Slowly. That’s it.”

Together, every few seconds, they tipped the bowl until the syrup drizzled into the rest of the filling, the reds blending together into a deep burgundy. 

“Very good, my love. And now, the vanilla and salt?”

Crowley poured them in. Aziraphale folded it all together until there was no trace of either.

“That’s it!” Aziraphale turned off the heat and clapped his hands together. “You’ll need to let it chill for half an hour. In that time, you can start arranging the crust for the top if you’d like to. It’s a very simple design. It may seem daunting, but with a little concentration and courage, you can do it, and you’ll be so proud of yourself once you see what you can do.”

Aziraphale gave himself a beat (as Crowley taught him to do) and paused the camera. Immediately, his smile slipped and was replaced with a grimace. He closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders and neck, little pops coming from his joints. After 6,000 years, one was prone to become stiff and sore. His corporation, he had to admit, was getting a little old. 

“Crowley, do you mind putting the pot in the fridge for me? I’ll start cleaning up here.”

He opened his eyes. Crowley was taking a long pull of the wine but hummed in agreement. 

“Save the wine for later, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “Or at least pace yourself. It’s only 1 in the afternoon.”

Crowley put the pot in the fridge, the filling splashing over the side as he set it down without him noticing. Aziraphale waved the mess away off the shelf. 

“Didn’t realize it was so early still.”

“Time goes slow when you’re retired, I suppose.”

Aziraphale opened his arms and Crowley went into them without a word. He was glad to be enveloped by his soft angel, and after their “retirement,” he had had so many more opportunities to fall into Aziraphale’s arms. It was always warm, pressed against Aziraphale’s belly and jumper-clad arms wrapped around him. 

Since they found their little cottage, they had begun indulging in simple, domestic moments. They had found joy in the good morning and good night kisses every day. They found happiness in regular routines.

Crowley made coffee every morning and handed Aziraphale a cup when he came downstairs after his human toiletries. Aziraphale made them meals three times a day. They went on walks between those meals, and they watched people on the shore, and they waved to neighbors, and they were _so_ disgustingly human. They cherished every moment of it. 

“Can we take a nap?” Crowley asked. 

“Not yet. We still have much more to do.” 

Crowley groaned and pulled away from his angel-cacoon. “How long does this take to make?”

“A few hours. But we’re almost done. We just have to assemble everything.”

Crowley threw his head back dramatically. “How can you do one thing for so long?”

“Dearest, you’ve slept for half a century before. I don’t want to hear it.”

“Sleeping is _good,_ though.”

And it was nice now that Crowley was healthy again. The cold from the winter that made him so terribly ill for months was finally gone. He was back on his feet with the newfound weight that made his face just ever-so-slightly round and that gave him nearly limitless energy (or what appeared to be nearly limitless when compared to his constant exhaustion the months before). Crowley _looked_ and _acted_ healthy now. 

When he wasn’t in the house, pestering Aziraphale, he was rebuilding his garden. He spent hours out there every day, expanding the flower boxes by hand and planting more seeds. Their yard was nearly overtaken by bushes and tall plants, blooming flowers, and budding vegetables contained in their wooden plots. Crowley had been talking about big plans for a dwarf weeping cherry tree. 

“You can lay down,” Aziraphale said, tugging at his bow-tie and his cardigan though they were both perfectly straight. “If you’re tired, you can rest, and I’ll finish up this video.”

Crowley shrugged. “Not really tired.”

There was always a fear, though, that Crowley would relapse at any point.

Aziraphale took his arms and looked at him, trying to see past the dark lenses. He spoke in a whisper. “If you’re tired, you should rest.”

Crowley pulled Aziraphale’s hands away and held them in his own. “I’m fine, angel. Just want an excuse to get you in bed.”

“Oh, you naughty thing!” Aziraphale turned away with a smirk and a twinkle in his eyes. “I refuse until we finish here. You can stay to help, or you can take yourself elsewhere until I’m done. It’s your choice, but you have to decide quickly. I’m about to start again.” 

Aziraphale waved his hand and the kitchen island was clean. Empty bowls were now tucked safely away in their cupboards, and the mess of ingredients that had spilled on the countertop was gone. Even Crowley’s wine was now in a proper Bordeaux glass, filled just a tad bit over the limit that was considered by many to be a drink. 

“I’ll stay with you,” Crowley said. 

“You’ll be rewarded for your patience.”

* * *

Aziraphale smiled down at his lattice pattern on the pie. He finished brushing the egg wash along the edges. 

“You’ll need to make sure that the dough is really pressed together so that it seals. We don’t want the filling running over in the oven. It’s a terrible mess you won’t want to clean up.”

Crowley watched from his seat at the island, just off-camera. He rested his chin on his hand and ran his fingers over the base of his empty glass. Aziraphale had moved the wine bottle to the other side of the island, and Crowley felt too weighed down by his buzz to get up and grab it (which he knew was his bastard’s intention). But, he was content watching his angel finish the pie. 

“It isn’t a tricky pattern at all and look! We now have a beautiful crust to this pie that’ll brown wonderfully.”

Aziraphale donned his oven mitts and carefully grabbed the pie and placed it in the waiting oven.

“We only need to put it in for 30 minutes right now. We’ll need to reduce the heat after that, rotate the pie, and then bake for another 60 to 75 minutes. Patience is key with this dish, but remember that you can spread it over a few days if you don’t have the time or energy to make it all in one day. You can make the dough in advance, and worry about constructing it with the filling later. Do what you’re capable of. Respect the limits of your body and mind.”

Crowley took off his glasses and laid his head down on his arms, still watching Aziraphale speak to the camera. He was usually physically appalled by Aziraphale’s goodness. He couldn’t help it. It was his nature to hate optimism (unless it was blind and fell into the “ignorance is bliss” category) and it was never his fault, he claimed, when he gagged every time Aziraphale said something grossly kind to humans. 

This time, however, he managed to keep his retching and sneering back. Maybe it was the alcohol that was dulling the effects. Or maybe the exposure was raising his tolerance. Whatever it was, it allowed Crowley to stay with Aziraphale as he spread his positivity. 

“Or perhaps you could ask a friend to help. There’s never anything wrong with asking help for big projects--even if you think they seem big only to you. I tried asking for help today.” Aziraphale looked to Crowley with a tired frown. “But someone drank most of our fermented ingredients.”

Crowley grinned. Aziraphale gave him the same look he used to give difficult customers. He looked drained, to say the least, and Crowley lived for those moments. There was nothing more enjoyable than mildly irritating your partner, Crowley believed. 

“He’s a bit helpless at the moment, but he can’t help it. Poor thing is just prone to causing trouble.” 

Crowley’s grin widened. “You know I am, angel!”

Aziraphale huffed and pulled at his cardigan. “Some days I wonder if you’re really worth putting up with.”

“You don’t mean thaaat.”

“I do!” Aziraphale fought back a smile. 

“I make your life adventurous.”

“I’m not sure if that’s what we’d all call it,” Aziraphale mumbled, turning away. 

“What do you mean by that--”

“Regardless of if you have help or not, whatever you create will come out lovely because you did what you could. I always encourage you all to be proud of what you can do because creating something is no small feat.

“Now, I’m going to let this bake and cool. It does need four hours before you can serve it, so that does mean keeping your husband entertained so he stays out of it.”

“Hey!”

“I’ll show you what my version looks like, but don’t be discouraged if yours looks different. Different doesn’t mean worse.”

Aziraphale paused the camera. Crowley had sat up and was starting with a furrowed brow and his bottom lip sticking out. 

“ _I’m_ the one that needs kept out the desserts?” he asked. 

“I only scavenge for treats when they’re fully baked. I can be patient and wait for a dish to be done. I don’t need instant gratification.”

“ _One time_ I ate brownies before they were ‘done’ and you haven’t let me forget it.”

“You took them out of the oven, dearest, after only ten minutes.”

Crowley rolled his eyes and crossed his arms. “It was _once._ ”

“Once was enough.”

Aziraphale walked to Crowley’s side. He cupped his face, looking at his rosy cheeks and frizzy hair. He pursed his lips, furrowing his eyebrows.

“You look awful, my dear.”

“Why do you keep insulting me today? What did I do to you?” 

“It’s not an insult. It’s an observation.” Aziraphale tried taming his hair with nervous fingers. “You’re awfully flushed. And warm.”

“It’s the wine. Wine makes me overheat.”

Aziraphale pressed his lips to Crowley’s forehead. It was a habit from the winter when Crowley was prone to short bouts of illness on top of his general malaise. Whenever Aziraphale noticed a hint of a flush across Crowley's cheeks, he would kiss his forehead to check for a fever. 

“It’s the wine, angel.”

Aziraphale pulled away. “I believe you. Maybe it’s time to sober up. I can tell it’s wearing off anyway.”

“You can’t keep worrying like this. I haven’t been sick in months.”

Crowley, somewhat aggressively, pushed his head into Aziraphale’s chest and raised his hands to Aziraphale’s waist. He slipped his hands inside Aziraphale’s cardigan, resting them on soft hips clad in an equally soft cotton shirt. It was like having his own personal pillow and space heater in one (though the last thing Crowley needed was more heat at the moment). 

He was sleepy and had the start of a headache. He was at the gross in-between state of sober and drunk when one feels awful and thirsty and doesn’t want to do anything except, perhaps, lay on the sofa watching television in the arms of one’s husband. Though, one would never want to admit to those latter thoughts. 

Aziraphale ran his hands up and down Crowley’s back. It felt _amazing._ Crowley could have fallen asleep right there. 

“Sober up, and we can have dinner.”

“Don’t want dinner. Want pie.”

“I was thinking we could order takeaway and watch a movie. But if you don’t want dinner, I _suppose_ I could get something for myself.”

Cheap food soaked in grease was tempting. Crowley made a frustrated hum in the back of his throat and sat up. 

“Can I pick the movie?” he asked. 

“Of course.”

“Can I pick the food?”

“We can… find a compromise. What would you like?”

“Chips.”

“I was thinking Thai.”

“We can get chips _and_ Thai.”

An hour later, they were curled up on the couch, Aziraphale sipping at the broth of his Tom Yum soup and Crowley quickly going through his chips which came from a brown bag with splotches of grease seeping through.

* * *

Aziraphale pulled the pie in front of the camera, checking the set up of the island in the display. Crowley tugged at his ear, keeping his head down as Aziraphale turned the camera on. With the last drops of wine out of his body, he was back to his camera-shy self whom the audience adored. 

Aziraphale cut into the pie, drawing the knife from the center and pulling out a perfect slice. He held it up for a moment before setting it on a plate. The dough along the bottom was a dark red and somehow the thick filling had crept underneath it. But, the peaches and syrup were a beautiful burgundy, shining in the lights Crowley had set up, and the top crust was golden brown. 

“You can see that the filling seeped into the crust a bit. It wasn’t supposed to look like this, but I’m sure it’ll be fine. Perhaps my filling was too thin--it was probably a bit heavy on the wine. I can’t imagine how that could have happened when Anthony was the one who measured it.”

He gave Crowley a playful smile. Crowley had taken to pulling on a strand of hair and didn’t acknowledge the teasing. 

“But, nevertheless, I’m sure it’ll taste fine. Not everything has to be pretty, and we now have notes for next time for improvements. That’s the joy of cooking. You can always improve on your recipes.”

Aziraphale tilted the camera up so that it was aimed at him and Crowley. He pierced a little bite on a fork and held it up. 

“Will you do the honors?” he asked Crowley. 

Crowley leaned forward and took the fork between his teeth, scraping the pie off the tongs. His shoulders drooped as he chewed, and his hands let go of his hair. 

“How is it?” 

“Good,” Crowley mumbled. 

“Scale of one to ten?”

“A 12.” 

Aziraphale beamed, turning to the camera. “See? It’s not beautiful, but it’s perfect for a husband to enjoy.” 

Crowley slid out of frame as Aziraphale went through his usual end-of-video praise. Crowley had explained again and again that the viewers didn’t always try the recipes and some of them weren’t even interested in cooking or baking. They watched because they enjoyed Aziraphale. But the angel never seemed to grasp that. It was endearing. 

“Thank you for baking with me today, and I hope to see you again.” 

Aziraphale turned off the camera and grabbed the knife, cutting another piece of pie for himself. Crowley lifted himself onto the countertop and took his own plate, digging into it. 

Aziraphale’s body relaxed and his eyes closed in bliss as he took his first bite. Crowley watched as he went through all the flavors--the sweetness of the wine, the earthiness of the rosemary, the tartness of the pears. Aziraphale twirled his fork and sighed. 

“Isn’t it better knowing that we were patient for it?” he asked. “We didn’t indulge the second it was out of the oven?”

“No idea what you’re talking about,” Crowley said, shoveling a large chunk of pie in his mouth and earning a disproving look. “I don’t understand this whole delayed gratification thing you always talk about.”

“It feels good to have waited for something. You get an extra level of satisfaction. And now you can savor it.”

Crowley watched Aziraphale eat another bite, going through the same emotions he had the first time. Crowley swore Aziraphale was the slowest eater on the planet. He rivaled a sloth. 

But he didn’t want Aziraphale any other way. He had waited 6,000 years for him, and he was going to enjoy Aziraphale for every quirk he had. He would worship him any way he came. 

“Are you alright, dear?” Aziraphale asked, reaching up to brush crumbs off the corners of Crowley’s mouth.

Crowley took Aziraphale’s hand and pressed a kiss into his knuckles. “Just thinking.”

And maybe that 6,000 years of longing was worth it, but Crowley felt he deserved that he should never have to wait for anything ever again.

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone wants the recipe to this pie, it's from Bon Appetit (Claire Saffitz I would die for you): www.bonappetit.com/recipe/pear-pie-with-red-wine-and-rosemary


End file.
